The Man Between(夹在中间的人)

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The Man Between

AN INTERNATIONAL ROMANCE

By AMELIA E. BARR

The Man Between

PART FIRST

O LOVE WILL VENTURE IN!

CHAPTER I

THE thing that I know least about is my beginning. For it is possible to

introduce Ethel Rawdon in so many picturesque ways that the choice is

embarrassing, and forces me to the conclusion that the actual

circumstances, though commonplace, may be the most suitable. Certainly

the events that shape our lives are seldom ushered in with pomp or

ceremony; they steal upon us unannounced, and begin their work without

giving any premonition of their importance.

Consequently Ethel had no idea when she returned home one night

from a rather stupid entertainment that she was about to open a new and

important chapter of her life. Hitherto that life had been one of the

sweetest and simplest character--the lessons and sports of childhood and

girlhood had claimed her nineteen years; and Ethel was just at that

wonderful age when, the brook and the river having met, she was feeling

the first swell of those irresistible tides which would carry her day by day

to the haven of all days.

It was Saturday night in the January of 1900, verging toward twelve

o'clock. When she entered her room, she saw that one of the windows was

open, and she stood a moment or two at it, looking across the straight

miles of white lights, in whose illumined shadows thousands of sleepers

were holding their lives in pause.

"It is not New York at all," she whispered, "it is some magical city that

I have seen, but have never trod. It will vanish about six o'clock in the

morning, and there will be only common streets, full of common people.

Of course," and here she closed the window and leisurely removed her

opera cloak, "of course, this is only dreaming, but to dream waking, or to

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dream sleeping, is very pleasant. In dreams we can have men as we like

them, and women as we want them, and make all the world happy and

beautiful."

She was in no hurry of feeling or movement. She had been in a crowd

for some hours, and was glad to be quite alone and talk to herself a little. It

was also so restful to gradually relinquish all the restraining gauds of

fashionable attire, and as she leisurely performed these duties, she entered

into conversation with her own heart--talked over with it the events of the

past week, and decided that its fretless days, full of good things, had been,

from the beginning to the end, sweet as a cup of new milk. For a woman's

heart is very talkative, and requires little to make it eloquent in its own

way.

In the midst of this intimate companionship she turned her head, and

saw two letters lying upon a table. She rose and lifted them. One was an

invitation to a studio reception, and she let it flutter indeterminately from

her hand; the other was both familiar and appealing; none of her

correspondents but Dora Denning used that peculiar shade of blue paper,

and she instantly began to wonder why Dora had written to her.

"I saw her yesterday afternoon," she reflected, "and she told me

everything she had to tell--and what does she-mean by such a tantalizing

message as this? `Dearest Ethel: I have the most extraordinary news.

Come to me immediately. Dora.' How exactly like Dora!" she commented.

"Come to me im- mediately--whether you are in bed or asleep --whether

you are sick or well--whether it is midnight or high noon--come to me

immediately. Well, Dora, I am going to sleep now, and to-morrow is

Sunday, and I never know what view father is going to take of Sunday. He

may ask me to go to church with him, and he may not. He may want me to

drive in the afternoon, and again he may not; but Sunday is father's home

day, and Ruth and I make a point of obliging him in regard to it. That is

one of our family principles; and a girl ought to have a few principles of

conduct involving self-denial. Aunt Ruth says, `Life cannot stand erect

without self-denial,' and aunt is usually right--but I do wonder what Dora

wants! I cannot imagine what extraordinary news has come. I must try and

see her to-morrow--it may be difficult--but I must make the effort"--and

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with this satisfying resolution she easily fell asleep.

When she awoke the church bells were ringing and she knew that her

father and aunt would have breakfasted. The feet did not trouble her. It

was an accidental sleep-over; she had not planned it, and circumstances

would take care of themselves. In any case, she had no fear of rebuke. No

one was ever cross with Ethel. It was a matter of pretty general belief that

whatever Ethel did was just right. So she dressed herself becomingly in a

cloth suit, and, with her plumed hat on her head, went down to see what

the day had to offer her.

"The first thing is coffee, and then, all being agreeable, Dora. I shall

not look further ahead," she thought.

As she entered the room she called "Good morning!" and her voice

was like the voice of the birds when they call "Spring!"; and her face was

radiant with smiles, and the touch of her lips and the clasp of her hand

warm with love and life; and her father and aunt forgot that she was late,

and that her breakfast was yet to order.

She took up the reproach herself. "I am so sorry, Aunt Ruth. I only

want a cup of coffee and a roll."

"My dear, you cannot go without a proper breakfast. Never mind the

hour. What would you like best?"

"You are so good, Ruth. I should like a nice breakfast--a breast of

chicken and mushrooms, and some hot muffins and marmalade would do.

How comfortable you look here! Father, you are buried in newspapers. Is

anyone going to church?"

Ruth ordered the desired breakfast and Mr. Rawdon took out his

watch--"I am afraid you have delayed us too long this morning, Ethel."

"Am I to be the scapegoat? Now, I do not believe anyone wanted to go

to church. Ruth had her book, you, the newspapers. It is warm and

pleasant here, it is cold and windy outside. I know what confession would

be made, if honesty were the fashion."

"Well, my little girl, honesty is the fashion in this house. I believe in

going to church. Religion is the Mother of Duty, and we should all make a

sad mess of life without duty. Is not that so, Ruth?"

"Truth itself, Edward; but religion is not going to church and listening

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to sermons. Those who built the old cathedrals of Europe had no idea that

sitting in comfortable pews and listening to some man talking was

worshiping God. Those great naves were intended for men and women to

stand or kneel in before God. And there were no high or low standing or

kneeling places; all were on a level before Him. It is our modern

Protestantism which has brought in lazy lolling in cushioned pews; and the

gallery, which makes a church as like a playhouse as possible!"

"What are you aiming at, Ruth?"

"I only meant to say, I would like going to church much better if we

went solely to praise God, and entreat His mercy. I do not care to hear

sermons."

"My dear Ruth, sermons are a large fact in our social economy. When

a million or two are preached every year, they have a strong claim on our

attention. To use a trade phrase, sermons are firm, and I believe a

moderate tax on them would yield an astonishing income."

"See how you talk of them, Edward; as if they were a commercial

commodity. If you respected them----"

"I do. I grant them a steady pneumatic pressure in the region of morals,

and even faith. Picture to yourself, Ruth, New York without sermons. The

dear old city would be like a ship without ballast, heeling over with every

wind, and letting in the waters of immorality and scepticism. Remove this

pulpit balance just for one week from New York City, and where should

we be?"

"Well then," said Ethel, "the clergy ought to give New York a first-rate

article in sermons, either of home or foreign manufacture. New York

expects the very best of everything; and when she gets it, she opens her

heart and her pocketbook enjoys it, and pays for it."

"That is the truth, Ethel. I was thinking of your grandmother Rawdon.

You have your hat on--are you going to see her?"

"I am going to see Dora Denning. I had an urgent note from her last

night. She says she has `extraordinary news' and begs me to `come to her

immediately.' I cannot imagine what her news is. I saw her Friday

afternoon."

"She has a new poodle, or a new lover, or a new way of crimping her

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hair," suggested Ruth Bayard scornfully." She imposes on you, Ethel; why

do you submit to her selfishness?"

"I suppose because I have become used to it. Four years ago I began to

take her part, when the girls teased and tormented her in the schoolroom,

and I have big-sistered her ever since. I suppose we get to love those who

make us kind and give us trouble. Dora is not perfect, but I like her better

than any friend I have. And she must like me, for she asks my advice

about everything in her life."

"Does she take it?"

"Yes--generally. Sometimes I have to make her take it."

"She has a mother. Why does she not go to her?"

"Mrs. Denning knows nothing about certain subjects. I am Dora's

social godmother, and she must dress and behave as I tell her to do. Poor

Mrs. Denning! I am so sorry for her--another cup of coffee, Ruth--it is not

very strong."

"Why should you be sorry for Mrs. Denning, Her husband is

enormously rich--she lives in a palace, and has a crowd of men and

women servants to wait upon her--carriages, horses, motor cars, what not,

at her command."

"Yet really, Ruth, she is a most unhappy woman. In that little Western

town from which they came, she was everybody. She ran the churches,

and was chairwoman in all the clubs, and President of the Temperance

Union, and manager of every religious, social, and political festival; and

her days were full to the brim of just the things she liked to do. Her dress

there was considered magnificent; people begged her for patterns, and

regarded her as the very glass of fashion. Servants thought it a great

privilege to be employed on the Denning place, and she ordered her house

and managed her half-score of men and maids with pleasant autocracy.

NOW! Well, I will tell you how it is, NOW. She sits all day in her splendid

rooms, or rides out in her car or carriage, and no one knows her, and of

course no one speaks to her. Mr. Denning has his Wall Street friends----"

"And enemies," interrupted Judge Rawdon.

"And enemies! You are right, father. But he enjoys one as much as the

other--that is, he would as willingly fight his enemies as feast his friends.

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He says a big day in Wall Street makes him alive from head to foot. He

really looks happy. Bryce Denning has got into two clubs, and his money

passes him, for he plays, and is willing to love prudently. But no one cares

about Mrs. Denning. She is quite old--forty-five, I dare say; and she is

stout, and does not wear the colors and style she ought to wear--none of

her things have the right `look,' and of course I cannot advise a matron.

Then, her fine English servants take her house out of her hands. She is

afraid of them. The butler suavely tries to inform her; the housekeeper

removed the white crotcheted scarfs and things from the gilded chairs, and

I am sure Mrs. Denning had a heartache about their loss; but she saw that

they had also vanished from Dora's parlor, so she took the hint, and

accepted the lesson. Really, her humility and isolation are pitiful. I am

going to ask grandmother to go and see her. Grandmother might take her

to church, and get Dr. Simpson and Mrs. Simpson to introduce her. Her

money and adaptability would do the rest. There, I have had a good

breakfast, though I was late. It is not always the early bird that gets

chicken and mushrooms. Now I will go and see what Dora wants"--and

lifting her furs with a smile, and a "Good morning!" equally charming, she

disappeared.

"Did you notice her voice, Ruth?" asked Judge Rawdon. What a tone

there is in her `good morning!'"

"There is a tone in every one's good morning, Edward. I think people's

salutations set to music would reveal their inmost character. Ethel's good

morning says in D major `How good is the day!' and her good night drops

into the minor third, and says pensively `How sweet is the night!'"

"Nay, Ruth, I don't understand all that; but I do understand the voice. It

goes straight to my heart."

"And to my heart also, Edward. I think too there is a measured music,

a central time and tune, in every life. Quick, melodious natures like Ethel's

never wander far from their keynote, and are therefore joyously set; while

slow, irresolute people deviate far, and only come back after painful

dissonances and frequent changes."

"You are generally right, Ruth, even where I cannot follow you. I hope

Ethel will be home for dinner. I like my Sunday dinner with both of you,

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and I may bring my mother back with me."

Then he said "Good morning" with an intentional cheerfulness, and

Ruth was left alone with her book. She gave a moment's thought to the

value of good example, and then with a sigh of content let her eyes rest on

the words Ethel's presence had for awhile silenced:

"I am filled with a sense of sweetness and wonder that such, little

things can make a mortal so exceedingly rich. But I confess that the

chiefest of all my delights is still the religious." (Theodore Parker.) She

read the words again, then closed her eyes and let the honey of some

sacred memory satisfy her soul. And in those few minutes of reverie, Ruth

Bayard revealed the keynote of her being. Wanderings from it, caused by

the exigencies and duties of life, frequently occurred; but she quickly

returned to its central and controlling harmony; and her serenity and poise

were therefore as natural as was her niece's joyousness and hope. Nor was

her religious character the result of temperament, or of a secluded life.

Ruth Bayard was a woman of thought and culture, and wise in the ways of

the world, but not worldly. Her personality was very attractive, she had a

good form, an agreeable face, speaking gray eyes, and brown hair, soft and

naturally wavy. She was a distant cousin of Ethel's mother, but had been

brought up with her in the same household, and always regarded her as a

sister, and Ethel never remembered that she was only her aunt by adoption.

Ten years older than her niece, she had mothered her with a wise and

loving patience, and her thoughts never wandered long or far from the girl.

Consequently, she soon found herself wondering what reason there could

be for Dora Denning's urgency.

In the meantime Ethel had reached her friend's residence a new

building of unusual size and very ornate architecture. Liveried footmen

and waiting women bowed her with mute attention to Miss Denning's suite,

an absolutely private arrangement of five rooms, marvelously furnished

for the young lady's comfort and delight. The windows of her parlor

overlooked the park, and she was standing at one of them as Ethel entered

the room. In a passion of welcoming gladness she turned to her,

exclaiming: "I have been watching for you hours and hours, Ethel. I have

the most wonderful thing to tell you. I am so happy! So happy! No one

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was ever as happy as I am."

Then Ethel took both her hands, and, as they stood together, she

looked intently at her friend. Some new charm transfigured her face; for

her dark, gazelle eyes were not more lambent than her cheeks, though in a

different way; while her black hair in its picturesquely arranged disorder

seemed instinct with life, and hardly to be restrained. She was constantly

pushing it back, caressing or arranging it; and her white, slender fingers,

sparkling with jewels, moved among the crimped and wavy locks, as if

there was an intelligent sympathy between them.

"How beautiful you are to-day, Dora! Who has worked wonders on

you?"

"Basil Stanhope. He loves me! He loves me! He told me so last night--

in the sweetest words that were ever uttered. I shall never forget one of

them--never, as long as I live! Let us sit down. I want to tell you

everything."

"I am astonished, Dora!"

"So was mother, and father, and Bryce. No one suspected our affection.

Mother used to grumble about my going `at all hours' to St. Jude's church;

but that was because St. Jude's is so very High Church, and mother is a

Methodist Episcopal. It was the morning and evening prayers she objected

to. No one had any suspicion of the clergyman. Oh, Ethel, he is so

handsome! So good! So clever! I think every woman in the church is in

love with him."

"Then if he is a good man, he must be very unhappy."

"Of course he is quite ignorant of their admiration, and therefore quite

innocent. I am the only woman he loves, and he never even remembers me

when he is in the sacred office. If you could see him come out of the

vestry in his white surplice, with his rapt face and prophetic eyes. So

mystical! So beautiful! You would not wonder that I worship him."

"But I do not understand--how did you meet him socially?"

"I met him at Mrs. Taylor's first. Then he spoke to me one morning as I

came out of church, and the next morning he walked through the park with

me. And after that-- all was easy enough."

"I see. What does your father and mother think--or rather, what do they

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say?"

"Father always says what he thinks, and mother thinks and says what I

do. This condition simplified matters very much. Basil wrote to father, and

yesterday after dinner he had an interview with him. I expected it, and was

quite prepared for any climax that might come. I wore my loveliest white

frock, and had lilies of the valley in my hair and on my breast; and father

called me `his little angel' and piously wondered `how I could be his

daughter.' All dinner time I tried to be angelic, and after dinner I sang

`Little Boy Blue' and some of the songs he loves; and I felt, when Basil's

card came in, that I had prepared the proper atmosphere for the interview."

"You are really very clever, Dora."

"I tried to continue singing and playing, but I could not; the notes all

ran together, the words were lost. I went to mother's side and put my hand

in hers, and she said softly: `I can hear your father storming a little, but he

will settle down the quicker for it. I dare say he will bring Mr. Stanhope in

here before long."

"Did he?"

"No. That was Bryce's fault. How Bryce happened to be in the house at

that hour, I cannot imagine; but it seems to be natural for him to drop into

any interview where he can make trouble. However, it turned out all for

the best, for when mother heard Bryce's voice above all the other sounds,

she said, `Come Dora, we shall have to interfere now.' Then I was

delighted. I was angelically dressed, and I felt equal to the interview."

"Do you really mean that you joined the three quarreling men?"

"Of course. Mother was quite calm--calm enough to freeze a tempest--

but she gave father a look he comprehended. Then she shook hands with

Basil, and would have made some remark to Bryce, but with his usual

impertinence he took the initiative, and told he: very authoritatively to

`retire and take me with her'--calling me that `demure little flirt' in a tone

that was very offensive. You should have seen father blaze into anger at

his words. He told Bryce to remember that `Mr. Ben Denning owned the

house, and that Bryce had four or five rooms in it by his courtesy.' He said

also that the `ladies present were Mr. Ben Denning's wife and daughter,

and that it was impertinent in him to order them out of his parlor, where

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TheManBetween1TheManBetweenANINTERNATIONALROMANCEByAMELIAE.BARRTheManBetween2PARTFIRSTOLOVEWILLVENTUREIN!CHAPTERITHEthingthatIknowleastaboutismybeginning.ForitispossibletointroduceEthelRawdoninsomanypicturesquewaysthatthechoiceisembarrassing,andforcesmetotheconclusionthattheactualcircumstances,thoug...

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